My mother is life and my homeFrom coastlines to seas and mountainsFrom forests to deserts and plains,From rivers, streams and lakesTo magnificent ice glaciersAll in danger for theLust of money, greed,Ambition and ignoranceAnd of course, selective amnesia

The drive for profit, disguisedAs a quest for energyNo one knows, they say,If the climate has changedAnd if it did, they say,It is a natural occurrenceWith no human carbon footprint,They say, with mysteryWrapping themselves inRed, white and blue illusions

My mother is ill, time is running outOut there, in nature, we all think,But it begins here in our cities and townsWhere the most powerlessOf our sisters and brothersSubsist daily in the toxicWaste of inhumanityIn reservations, ghettos, barriosPoor communities everywhereFrom California to New Mexico,From New York to AppalachiaTo the deep SouthWhere people cannot stop theirCommunities from becomingDumping groundsReceiving the excrement of industriesThat spread cancer and tuberculosis

It starts here, where America'sEarliest human ancestorsThought first about theNext seven generations, beforeChanging the course of EarthSeven generations of impactOn their communities, andThanking our mother, dailyFor each and every giftShe imparts upon us

Science, common sense and faithTo save our motherTo save our homeSo that our children's childrenAnd their children's childrenWill have a mother and homeTo be able to breathe and liveIn harmony with all Earth's creaturesIt all begins with a simple decision...To think about how everythingWe decide and do impactsThe future of our mother and home

A tradition of resistanceTo foreign dominationFor justice and sovereigntyMade it easy for some IrishTo find a new home in MéxicoJoining the resistance against theU.S. English protestant invasion,Annexation, and theft of land

Escaping from oppression,Famine and povertyOf British colonialismInto the hands of English colonialismOf the New WorldFrom Irish hatred to Irish loathingA familiarity sung in corridos,Blues songs for freedom

From Galway to TenochtitlanTierra o muerteAmistad, hermandad, unidadFor freedom and self-determinationAgainst the colonialist beastThat would rip a nation apartThrough force and superior weaponsAgainst an alliance for independence

Erin go BraghMéxico libreA sentiment that survivesIn the consciousness of generationsAnd remembered in hearts and mindsAnd celebrated in the streetsOf México and IrelandErin go Bragh...México libre¡Que vivan Los San Patricos!

I am the configurationOf complex social relationsStemming from traditionsRooted in resistance to oppression

My consciousnessMy cultural existenceSings the blues and sorrow songsSometimes sung as corridosYou see, I understood why BB King sangWhy I Sing the BluesAt times I echo Aretha’s pleaFor R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Other times in my revolutionary momentsI espouse Malcolm’s declarationFor self-determinationIn my dreams I haveEmulated the oratory traditions of Dr. KingThe winged discipleOf peace, equality and justiceI have lived in the intersectionThe crossroad of ghetto and barrio

I am the dialectical outcomeOf intersections of peopleWith complex historical conditionsGiving rise to voices for social changeBlack Panther PartyOrganization to Free Los Siete de la RazaYoung Lords Party

I had become a bilingual soul brotherRecognizing the intersectionsOf multiple oppressionsInspired by social movementsTo repair the gaps and injusticesSewn into the fabric of the constitutionA movement, un movimientoTo end poverty, despair and hopelessnessWaving the banners of civil rights and human rightsPeace, equality, justice and self-determinationPaz, igualdad, justicia y autodeterminaciónYou see, it sounds right either wayBlack and Brown unity…That’s what I’m talking about

When you club, beat,Pepper spray elders,Children, women and menUninhibited by conscienceWhile standing on the lands ofProtectors of soil and waterWho've been thereSince the beginning of timeWhose only crime is To liberate land and waterFrom tyranny and abuse,Toxic contaminationSo future generations canLive safely and sanelyYou have lost your mindYour soul has been soldTo real, earthly evilAt the altar of bloodFrom the legacy of genocideThat feeds greedLeading to the opulent gatesOf shameless wealthThe masters pull stringsOf club wielding savagesDetermined to bringHuman beings to their kneesOnly to learn thatOppression breeds resistenceWarriors rise upExibiting new consciousnessWith the aspirations of ancestorsMore resolute than everTo defend land and waterFrom corporate tyrants

Three, only threeI remember when ICould cradle them inMy anticipating armsThe baby-ness of their bodiesThe way they smelledTenderness, silky-nessEyes that wanderEyes that wonderTiny arm hugsLaughs and gigglesThen everything elseBlurs into decadesBefore I can takeA mental photoThe emotions, the boysThe family daysDinners and discussionsBigger arm hugsThen the movesThey grow up, you knowThey stop being childrenThey no longer need usThey grow and goA piece of meGoes with each oneI did my job, butIt doesn't hurt any lessA family feels like aWhole of partsBut then the partsFade away, becomingPhone calls and visitsSo the older ones go onAnd the youngest oneHas to be all threeShe is the recipientOf all the I wish I hadBeen a better parent beforeAnd I wish she willStop growing, becauseI know she will be goingSomeday she will goJust like the othersAnd a piece of meWill go with her

I hope we getTo know one anotherBetterSo you will rememberMe while I stillMake senseBefore forgetfulnessOverwhelms my memoriesBefore my thoughtsFlitter away to the skySo you will rememberMe with coherent ideasThat you will laughWith me, at my witBefore images of loved onesEver-changing maturing facesBecome a convolutedNameless collageSo I can call you by your name, stillAnd know you whenI hug you and tell youI love you

Returning to that firstMoment when we metStill etched in my heartThe feeling ofNever wanting to be apartEverThat itch in my mindWhispering to my thoughtsWhen you are not near meThe last thought eachNightBefore I slip intoUnconsciousnessSearching for youIn my dreamsFinding youLying next to meIn the morningYour essence releasedWith each exhaleComforts meKnowing you willBe here tomorrowEases my mindYour touchYour scentYour softnessYour tasteSubconsciously lingerIn and out ofMy heart and soulEven after four decadesI still feelLike the momentWe metThe longing continuesLike an appetiteThat never wanes

Every time I see a monarchButterfly, I think ofBorder-free flightNorth to southSouth to northNo passports, no migraNo deportationsNo familias ripped apartNo political boundariesJust freedom to travelMariposas, winged palabrasFor Peace, equality, justiceEvery time I see a monarchButterfly I think ofPalabras trilingüesNahuatl, inglés, expañolTravelling freely from theMind of a poeta y maestroPalabras de esplendor y sabiduríaMurals of palabras volando sin puntuaciónPor todas partes in the minds,Souls and hearts of the worldThen I wonder to myself and aloudTo Francisco X. AlarcónWho will tend to las mariposas now?

What happens to that man whoFollows a flag with its loftyIdeals, but gets lost in the lies?A man puts on a uniform, andProudly goes to someone else'sLand, who may questionably beAn enemy...or not.

At first he searches forFighters, but after a while itDoesn't matter who is atThe other end of a weapon's barrel.They call them casualties of war,Even the children. Eventually theFace of the enemy meansEvery single one of THEM.

What happens to that man?He went to boot camp toUndress his sentimentality andShed his humanity untilNothing is left in his soul,Except his instinct to kill,Indiscriminately and competently,Without emotion, regret orEmpathy for all those who die.

What happens to that man?What happens when he comesHome and the parade is over,And he's left with scarsOn his brain or missing aPart of himself? Maybe, just maybeHe will awaken one day to discoverThe oil, blood stains, andCorporate logos sewn intoThe fine threads betweenThe stars and stripes.

“I spent 33 years and four months in active military service and during that period I spent most of my time as a high class muscle man for Big Business, for Wall Street and the bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism. I helped make Mexico and especially Tampico safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefit of Wall Street. I helped purify Nicaragua for the International Banking House of Brown Brothers in 1902-1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for the American sugar interests in 1916. I helped make Honduras right for the American fruit companies in 1903. In China in 1927 I helped see to it that Standard Oil went on its way unmolested. Looking back on it, I might have given Al Capone a few hints. The best he could do was to operate his racket in three districts. I operated on three continents.”― Smedley D. Butler, War is a Racket: The Antiwar Classic by America's Most Decorated Soldier

Where did I come from? You ask!I came from a great civilization,a people who knew what day it was whilethe rest of the world did notI came from a people who knewwhere the earth fit in reation to the universeI came from a civilizationof great art and advanced culturea people with advanced mathematicsand structures which were symmetrical to the sunI came from a great civilizationwhich has survived brutal conquestsI have survived forced bastardizationat the point of a swordI came from a civilizationthat fought for independence from three foreign nationsin one century alone!I survived a bloody annexationand to this day I maintain my identityagainst pressure to become forcibly assimilatedI came from a civilizationwhich has been heresince the beginning of timeI am heir to the traditions ofCuauhtemoc, Benito Juárez, Emiliano Zapataand Emma Tenayuca!I am indigenous to this land!and now,I hear the voices of stupiditywhose narrow national chauvinistic wordscome passing through their ignorant lips,as they tell me, to go back, where I came from

Flying in the breezeIn the back of a pickup truckLike a big XA Jim Crow XA slavocracy XA battle flag forThe glory of the SouthBack in the day When tortured peopleBellowed sorrow songsMuffled by the traditionsOf the South

The battle flag to preserveSlavery and Jim CrowThe battle flag thatShouts, a Confederate,A Reb who wants toLeave America for aPast, where SouthernGentlemen and BellesOf the South live in gloryOf bloody repression andState suppression of hearts and minds

The battle flag of terrorism,Lynchings and bloody whipsChildren for saleMothers for saleFathers for saleThe battle flag, nostalgicFor enslavement, thenRepression and suppressionOf democracy for Black folk

Fascism lived in the streets,Courts...everywhere, ifYou were BlackThat big X flows in theBreeze, or on a truckWindow or license plate,Bragging: yeah, I use the"N" word, oftenAnd I curse MexicansAnd Indians and all thoseOTHER people who ain't white

But cowards pause forA moment, thinking they'reSo smart, teeth grinning,Declaring, It's not racist,I'm just preserving historyAnd traditions of the South

They don't need the klan:The police are the klan;The courts are the klan:The judges are the klan;Congress is the klanBackward racists inPickups with big X'sAre the klanAnd prisons are the newPlantations, if you areBlack, Raza or Native

That big X: the Constitutional right toFlaunt fascism in the nameOf democracy to X outThe voices and rights of OTHERSLet's be clear, white supremacyAnd racism and fascism are notThe history and traditions thatDemocracy loving people want

America likes to remove faces,Rhetorically of children.Hate mongers findIt easier to hate childrenWhen the childrenHave no recognizable faces.They love blurry imagesThat Republicans can refer to.Especially children that haveNames that are hard to pronounce,Like the gardener's or maid's or cook's.Especially if it sounds like Mexico names.No, blurry faces are scary, like monsters.Faceless, not recognizable...not like humans,But children, who may be escaping forTheir lives, but since they are facelessWe can't really notice if they die.They're not like "real" children,Not like born-here Americans, you know.Those faceless kids whose names or homesCongresspeople cannot pronounce.Faceless children can go back andFace poverty and possibly death, alone,Because, afterall, they are faceless,Just the way racists want them.